


nothing scares me anymore

by Ahavaa



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Kidnapping, M/M, Serious Dubcon, Stockholm Syndrome, dark au, dubcon, franklin nelson: best person in the MCU, kind of sideways mention of child abuse, look everything is just pretty terrible in this universe tbh, matt is a disaster but this time even more of one, people being shits, this is why bad guys think he's delicious, violence as an acceptable way of expressing emotion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahavaa/pseuds/Ahavaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He'd been learning all kinds of new things about Matt, lately</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on the kinkmeme: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Something I haven't been able to get out of my mind since watching the show is how close Matt is/can be to being a "bad guy". I don't mean in regards to the city; I don't think he'd ever be able to not feel like he has to do something to save Hell's Kitchen... but sometimes there's something really unsettling about him. Coupled with his capacity for violence, just, wow._
> 
>  
> 
> http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=2161680#cmt2161680
> 
>  
> 
> *sigh* um. apparently all i really want to do is write stuff where everyone in the MCU is drugged-up happy or is living in an actual stephen king novel. so. uh.

Foggy'd only had about three weeks to deal with the whole "oh, my best friend's a blind ninja who beats people up at night and because of his nighttime hobby nearly got himself killed and tanked me and Karen, who will definitely, definitely go to jail if he gets arrested instead of killed," and he was still so fucking furious he couldn't look at it straight on, yet. Not sober, anyways. _What_ an asshole: how dare he let Foggy build up that trust in him, that certainty that Matt Murdock, there was an honest guy. Guy you could depend on, the guy who could tell you right from wrong - yeah, sure, tell you with his fists, maybe. 

He wasn't _stupid_ , though, and even if he had been, he'd gotten fun visual evidence of exactly what Matt's fucking nighttime hobby usually entailed: he'd gotten to watch Matt's nurse put about a billion stitches into his back and chest and stomach, that night. Sure, Matt ever got _caught_ and they'd all go to jail forever, but Matt was probably going to die shot in an alley somewhere in a couple of years. Foggy didn't know if he hoped that he and Karen would get the news, when it happened, or if he hoped that Matt would just disappear, one day, and they'd slowly lose hope after weeks and months. 

Fuck. _This_ shit - these morbid paranoid fantasies, thanks a _fucking_ lot, Murdock - this was why he still couldn't look at Matt. 

It was why he didn't ask the questions he should've, when Matt turned up at Foggy's place at half past two in the morning, banging on the door and shouting. 

"Not talking to you yet," Foggy said, when he opened the door, but - but Matt pushed in regardless, and Matt was stronger than he looked, and - oh, no. "Oh, no. You don't come here like that, asshole, get out," because Matt was wearing that stupid black shirt and jeans. No mask, but his lip was split and there was a fresh bruise on his cheek. OK, so Foggy'd had a drink - or two - but that didn't excuse Matt, always pushing, who caged Foggy up against the wall in the entryway, tilting his head like he was playing Lassie. 

"Shut _up_ ," he said. Slapped a hand over Foggy's mouth. 

(So Foggy's cock twitched: Matt was fucking gorgeous, that hadn't changed, but it wasn't like Foggy was an animal who had to act on that kind of thing: he was drunk, it happened, it didn't mean shit except Matt was no good at personal boundaries, that's all.) 

"Look," Matt said, "I know you're still pissed and I am _sorry_ but I can't - something happened tonight, okay, and I can't worry about you and Karen and deal with this, so would you just -" his face twisted. That's really what did it: that's really where Foggy went stupid. Later, he'd think _not my fault_ and _matt had fucking years of experience lying to me_ , but in that minute Matt's face twisted like he was _guilty_ , like he was going to cry, and that was honest to god what made Foggy stupid. " - don't trust me, fine, but _let me keep you safe_ , please, Foggy -"

Well. 

**

"OK, Matt," Foggy said, because Matt had disappeared for eight hours and come back looking exhausted and squirrely, "Still not talking to you, but let's talk."

"Yes," he said, immediately, "yeah, what -"

"I mean," Foggy said. He'd sobered up some. He - realized, at this point, that in a certain light, if you were a certain kind of a person, that you could say, for example, that Franklin Nelson had left his apartment in the middle of the night to follow a known vigilante who might not've shot any cops, but who had put more than a couple people in comas. He'd really started noticing all these - little details, say, after he'd figured that the door locked from the outside, and that there weren't, really, any windows. 

He'd realized that he'd forgotten his cell phone, in the rush to leave, which was. Y'know. A coincidence. Bad luck, yeah, but just a coincidence. 

"Fuck, man," he said. Matt could tell when he was lying, he thought, absently, for no reason at all, of course. Didn't matter, because when he said "Can I use your phone, I need to call Karen, I left mine at my place," that was - well, that was the truth. 

"I didn't bring mine," Matt said. "No point in carrying it when I'm -" and he shrugged. "She's fine, though, I got her taken care of." 

"Cool," Foggy said. Well. If he could feel his heart speeding up, Matt could hear it, no question. 

"Don't worry," Matt said, quick, earnest: "I promise you're safe here, I do, I just - there's a couple more things I have to do. Finish this up. I wanted to make sure you were okay, but - just." He took a deep breath. "Just stay here, just a little longer, okay?"

"Sure, buddy," Foggy said. "Hey, better give me a key, though." He laughed; okay, shitty try, but hopefully Matt wouldn't - not that there was any reason to worry about Matt, obviously - "Couldn't get the door open when you were gone."

 

**

 

Matt was gone for a while. 

He didn't leave Foggy a key. 

Circumstances being what they were, Foggy spent the time feeling...anxious, let's say. (OK, let's not fucking lie: he spent probably a solid hour vacillating between _ridiculous, Nelson, fucking ridiculous, you've known Matt for six years, this is **dumb**_ and _thought you knew him, didn't you? he's a good liar, isn't he?_. Which, to be fair, were the main points he'd been caught on for weeks now, but - but before, in his own apartment, he'd figured it that was as bad as it was going to get. 

That _was_ as bad as it was going to get. Obviously. Matt was - having a tough fucking few months, understatement of the year, and Foggy had seen Matt stressed before, he'd gone a little private, a little grim, a little tight around the eyes, but it had never been. Matt hadn't ever. 

Look, nobody could blame a guy for getting a _little_ paranoid right after he found out his best friend had been lying to him for years. It was stupid, but - sometimes Foggy was stupid. That was all. 

So when Matt got back the second time carrying takeout and closed the door behind him, all that free-floating anxiety that'd been - well, floating around - sort of swamped Foggy. 

 

**

 

"Foggy, don't -" and Matt looked intent, and miserable, and like Foggy was crushing him all over again, which would be really sad if they weren't - "don't make me _leave_ , please, I get you're mad, I just - can I please just stay here with you tonight?" 

A couple of days ago, Foggy might have said the obvious, like "leave and go where, Matt," or "where is here, exactly?" or even fucking "I don't think I'm making you do anything, Matthew," and if he'd had more sleep and been less stressed, he might have reconsidered the wisdom of what actually came out of his mouth. Matt looked jumpy and upset, in ways that Foggy had honestly never seen from him before. 

But hey, he'd been learning all kinds of new things about Matt lately, so. 

He was hungover. He'd been locked in a room by Matt. He didn't have a _fucking_ phone, his life had started to feel like a cartoon, so he did in fact say "nah, how bout you stay here and I'll leave," which was really the spark that set off the powder. 

"That's not a good - I don't like that idea," Matt said, with a ghost of a smile, even though his shoulders were high and tight, and - huh. He was really light on his feet. Quick, too, because he was suddenly up in Foggy's space again, and Foggy thought about - he almost shoved Matt back. A second before it actually translated to actually reinforcing his personal space, though, he remembered the news footage. Matt flippin around like a lethal acrobat. 

And then Foggy wanted to slap his own face, and he wanted to shake some of the adrenaline off, because this was _Matt_ , Matt who in six years had never once done anything violent in front of Foggy, Matt who he loved like a brother and who loved him, so it wasn't - if Foggy shoved Matt, Matt would be _hurt_ , he would be gutted, it would _hurt his feelings_ , it wouldn't - they wouldn't fight it out to the death, that was stupid. 

"Okay, Matty," he said, suddenly tired, exhausted and buzzing with exhaustion, and he needed _something_ to ground him, so he caught Matt by the shoulders, gentle, shook him a little to get his attention, as it were. Matt let him; he didn't just let Foggy touch him, he _leaned into it_. 

Ah, we are _fucked_ , Foggy thought. "OK, all right: you're in charge, big guy."

" _No_ ," Matt said, immediately, shaking his head; he reached up and grabbed one of Foggy's hands, hung on tight. "No, I didn't mean - I know, I fucked up before, I - we've always been _partners_ , I know, I shouldn't have cut you out, I made all these decisions without you -" and Matt was tearing up a little, Christ. "I'm not in charge," he said, "I just - I can't lose you, Foggy, I -" 

Later, Foggy spent some time playing Monday morning quarterback, no lie, and the next five minutes were definitely one of the times he really. He couldn't. He spent a lot of time, considering what he might've said and done. If anything he could've said might have led Matt to - to doing something different. Sometimes it was nice to think that he could've changed it; sometimes he convinced himself that this particular trainwreck had been building since they'd met each other. 

At the time, though, Matt was shaking a little, and Foggy automatically leaned in, trying to soothe him, because fuck it, he still didn't even know what was going on, why Matt had pulled him and Karen out of their apartments in the middle of the night, or where Karen was exactly - whatever had happened, it had to have been bad, right? And - he was sober, he knew he was, but he was upset as fuck, and who knows, maybe he leaned in a little too close, reminded Matt of earlier in the evening. Because Matt, he - settled, was the only word Foggy had for it: it didn't look like he relaxed, it didn't look like he was any less upset, but he got - resolved. "You're in charge too," he said. "Look, I don't - I know you've thought about it before," and the fuck was it about tonight that Foggy couldn't keep Matt off of him, like a really angry limpet in his stupid black I'm A Criminal outfit: "you did it earlier tonight." 

Sure, if Foggy had maybe thirty seconds to unpack _that_ and come up with a list of reasons why Matt was wrong and that was a really, really, shitty idea, he could've, but - Matt had _resolved_. Suddenly he was shoving Foggy up against the wall, and sure, his _words_ might be panicked and uncertain, but he was more than strong enough to put Foggy someplace and keep him there. This had suddenly stopped being a democracy. 

Matt was really, really strong. Foggy tried to knock his hands away and Matt just shifted so his shoulder was blocking Foggy's reach, and bizarrely _Matt_ was soothing him, making little shhing noises. This was - not good, and to make matters _far fucking worse_ , the familiar weight of Matt felt _good_ , it was weirdly soothing, it was something to focus on in this whole disaster of a night. Foggy'd always known what Matt felt like, leaning up against him. 

"Yeah, buddy, but - okay, that's right, you probably - smelled that, right, but - don't - that doesn't mean I want -" Foggy said

"No, no, it's okay, I don't mind," Matt said, this bizarro Matt, trying to comfort Foggy while he was tearing his pants off with a single-minded determination to ignore the way Foggy was pushing him off. 

Oh yeah, Foggy thought, yeah, this is - doesn't he sound self-sacrificing? Matt's always been a convincing liar, why I am not convinced, this is a -

(but the awful truth was that he did, in fact, sound - Matt sounded _desperate_ , and Foggy was a shitty friend, okay, fine, everyone was learning new things about themselves tonight, but Matt sounded desperate _for Foggy_ and his hand was big and hot and - and in a very short time Foggy was curled around Matt; he couldn't catch his breath.)

"You with me? Be with me, c'mon, Foggy, just -" Matt said, and Foggy couldn't help it, he wrapped an arm around Matt, who was _shaking_ , pressed their foreheads together: "yeah, Matty," he managed. 

Matt groaned; his hand tightened painfully for a second, and then he mouthed at Foggy's jaw, whispering "sorry, sorry, I can do better, I -"

He went to his knees. 

Foggy wanted to yell, but he didn't have air: he couldn't _think_ , it was all Matt's lush mouth swallowing him down to the root, Matt's nose against his pubic bone, _heat_ and the slick muscular strength of his throat, it - Foggy felt himself losing his footing, against the wall. Matt caught him, steadied him; 

"you - little shit," Foggy gasped, because it was important to remember that this was _Matt_ , eyes closed, and sure, Matt had never even hinted, before, that he wanted this, but _Foggy knew Matt, he did_ , "are you - _laughing_ \- " 

Matt opened his eyes and winked at Foggy before he hummed, low and pleased. Foggy couldn't keep his eyes open because it was too much, towards the end: his balls drew up tight and Matt's tongue swirled around his _dick_. It didn't feel quite real, anymore, the whole night. 

He grabbed for Matt's hand, when he came. Matt squeezed his fingers, hard. 

 

**

 

"What are we doing today," Foggy said. Matt had been - touchy, all morning. Not sensitive, just - cuddly. It made the room feel smaller than it actually was. Foggy felt a little ungrateful - not to be a dick, not to be ungentlemanly - but today especially, for some reason, he didn't want - he didn't want Matt leaning against him, or bumping his shoulder affectionately, or grinning at him first thing in the morning. He wanted a little goddamn _space_. 

"I _want_ to stay," Matt said, and ducked his head, blushing. "I mean." He kicked Foggy's ankle; oh Jesus, but Matt was acting like - like this was a _good_ morning. _Is this what all of Matt's girlfriends saw_ , Foggy wondered; well, it would explain why so many women had fallen for him. "But I do need to head to the office," he finished, a little anxiously. 

Foggy didn't say anything for a minute. Because. Well. (Because he needed, at the core of him, even deeper than the "I have fucked myself, here," which - in a minute, hopefully after Matt left, even more hopefully but less likely after Matt let him out and they never spoke of this again - he was probably going to have to actually look at, in the cold light of day. Underneath that, even, he needed - he needed Matt to not, actually, be a terrorist. _Foggy_ still understood that Matt wasn't, not really, he couldn't be a terrorist, but it felt like Matt kept making the kind of stupid mistakes that could be - misinterpreted.) 

"I'll be back soon," Matt said, quick, uncertain. 

"Leave your phone," Foggy said. He'd like to say he sounded casual, no-big-deal, but: aw, c'mon, Nelson, as fucking ridiculous as the whole thing seemed, it was becoming very obvious that - 

\- there was a bed here. The power was coming from somewhere. Yesterday it might have just been strange, that Matt had a little hidey-hole like this set up. Today, though: well. Foggy had been here for more than twenty-four hours, as he figured it, and - it was just worrying, that's all. Bathroom with a shower and everything, but the bathroom didn't really have a window either, yeah, yesterday was weird, but today was. 

Ah, Nelson, you may have fucked up, Foggy thought. He'd gotten into the habit of trying not to stare at Matt when he knew that Matt couldn't stare back, but today - he didn't want to take his eyes off Matt. 

(I wasted six years, Foggy thought, that morning, watching Matt from across the cheap little card table where he was scarfing cold pad thai. Six years of my life, that was a mistake, I've known people who didn't wait that long to get divorced.)

And then: nobody I know really knows where I am. 

But that was a _crazy_ thought to think, that was - 

\- a crazy situation, maybe? Like one day you wake up and your best friend's been lying for years, your best friend's a violent nutjob who's - Foggy had asked Brett for the police reports. It'd seemed prudent, at the time; it was something that they'd done before, when they'd had a client or a witness that might have been lying too much for their own good. The only decent thing about that had been that Brett didn't know that it hadn't been for work, it had been for personal reasons. 

"I forgot it at my place," Matt said. His shoulders did something weird and complicated that made him look small and tense. "It's been a rough couple of days."

"I want to check on Karen," Foggy said. 

"Yeah, I told you, she's fine," Matt said. "Whoa. Hey. What was that, it's -"

"If you say it's fine," Foggy said, carefully, because he had the funny, funny feeling that it wasn't just polite or a good idea to be careful, but it was _necessary_ to be careful here, "I am probably gonna scream, bud. I want to talk to Karen because I'm worried about her, not because -" oh god "not because I don't trust you, I'm not double-checking your work, but I like Karen for Karen." Had that been enough double-negatives? Did Matt's supersensory way of checking on the truth of someone's statements boil down to "glorified polygraph," in which case, good, Foggy was a lawyer, or was it something a little more complex? 

Matt must've, unfortunately, been thinking along the same lines - _a week ago_ , Foggy thought, a little amazed, _I was proud of how well we could keep up with each other's lines of thought_ \- because he put down the chopsticks and rubbed at his temple. "So do you think I'm lying about Karen?" he asked, which made - ah, shit, it did in fact make Foggy want to throw up a little. 

_It's Matt,_ , he thought, it's Matt, it's Matt, it's Matt, remember when you were twenty-one and Matt talked the dean into giving you a chance after professor asshole accused you of cheating? 

"I think you're being a little mysterious," he said, which was true. 

"Objection, your honor," Matt said. He smiled. It looked fucking awful. "Avoiding the question." 

Foggy didn't say anything. 

Matt didn't say anything, either. 

Foggy didn't think about anything, at that moment. He started counting - five in and five out. Okay. Not a big - not a big deal. 

"I think you should go do what you need to do," Foggy said. Yeah, his voice shook a little, _fuck did you want from him_. "I -" and he swallowed, convulsively, he was starting to get a little - if he wasn't counting his breathing, in and out, it might have sounded like he wasn't happy. "I'll be here when you get back, I guess," and he had never more in his life wanted to see Matt's dumbass goofy grin, hear that this was a joke or a fucking - or that he was wrong, being stupid, some shit like that, but Matt's jaw tensed up and he shrugged. 

"Look, just hang in here with me," he said, earnest, the earnest thing was going to make Foggy do something - not very smart - in a minute.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt came back late, that night, wearing his black jeans and shirt, but this time it'd been cut open down the back, a cut that was puffy and fresh, and _fuck his life_ but even after sitting in Matt's panic room all day, there was an idea that would've been funny a month ago, Foggy couldn't help it, he got - worried. His hair was wet with sweat or rain, Foggy didn't know, and he looked _exhausted_ when he came in the room. 

Locked the door. 

Turned around and grinned all over his face. Honey, I'm home. Foggy wanted to laugh and he wanted to yell at this asshole, but - but - 

 

**

 

Foggy burst out with "why am I talking to you if what I say doesn't matter," later that night, and Matt shut down. His whole body tensed, got tight and little: oh, that was. Not great. 

"it does matter, though," Matt said. "It does, you do, how could you think that you don't, I mean -" he laughed, abrupt and more than a little jagged. "Jesus, Foggy, you're the one good thing I've got."

"I don't want you touching my dick," Foggy said, clearly. 

"I -" Matt frowned. That was the awful truth at the center of this shitnugget of a situation: he sounded a little helpless, a little confused, totally sincere, and Foggy could not fucking tell if he was lying or not. "But why are you - that's not even _true_ , but - it's not important, I told you, I don't mind, I liked it-"

"I don't," Foggy said. 

Matt made a ridiculous face: they'd made faces like that at each other before, behind a particularly irritating professor's back. "OK, yeah, whatever," he said. "You come all over yourself, but okay, you don't like it -"

"Jesus," Foggy said, which might have a little bit been on purpose, to push Matt a little. What the fuck did you _say to that_. 

"You got hard last night," Matt said. His voice and his face were gentle, almost apologetic, like he was trying to give Foggy a hard truth without upsetting him too badly: _don't want to embarrass you, Foggy_ , his voice said, _but let's look at the facts_. Okay, fine, but his body language was aggressive, unrelenting, taking up all the space, taking all of _Foggy's_ space. He didn't do anything as obvious as push: he just got right up against Foggy, like he'd be fine having this argument chest to chest and groin to groin. _Foggy_ wasn't, but that meant he had to give ground, and he could only back up so far before he'd run into a wall. "And in the morning."

"Sometimes that happens, Matt," Foggy said, and - and he did feel guilty, was the terrible thing. Matt had crowded him up against the wall, looked almost like he was _sniffing_ Foggy, but Foggy'd been so tense and miserable that all this worked-up stale adrenaline had to go _somewhere_ , and - and Matt was warm, near-burning hot, and serious, and - 

"Duh," Matt agreed, and he flashed that pretty Look-At-Me-I'm-Harmless-Matt-Murdock. "You don't have to be _embarrassed_ , man -" 

"I'm not embarrassed," Foggy said, and Matt put his hand on Foggy's crotch, hot, no pressure, just sort of - addressing the elephant in the room, so to speak. 

"I told you not to touch me," Foggy said, and it was _true_ but he felt sick after he said it, because Matt jerked his hand back, and his face crumpled. He stayed on Foggy: from here, even he could smell Matt's sweat, a little bloody, a little bitter. "Matt, that's not -"

"No -"

"Look, I don't - _listen_ , okay, it's just - been a lot, right," Foggy said. "I'm tired, I think." 

"I can leave," Matt said, looking like a kicked puppy. 

"No," Foggy said, because he didn't think he could handle another ten, eleven hours alone here: he felt a little stupid, a little crazy anyways. "I'm tired, that's all, Batman, normal people get tired sometimes," because _one_ of them was, clearly, a little Not Okay (and what would Foggy do if it wasn't him, huh?) It was clearly him, it had to be. 

"Can I," Matt said, and blushed, and it made Foggy's head hurt, watching Matt being gentle and sweet from the neck up, and seeing the ugly strength of his body from the neck down. "I don't - I won't, if you don't want it, not tonight, but - can I sleep in the bed with you? I," and he leaned into Foggy, "I liked it," he said, quiet, almost like _he_ was embarrassed. 

"Yeah," Foggy said. 

Matt felt into a light, twitchy sleep after about half an hour: Foggy laid still, forcing himself to relax against Matt's strong arms, that night, for what felt like hours. 

 

**

 

The next morning, Foggy went a little - he should've had a plan, it's true. Maybe if he'd bothered to plan it out, it might have actually done some good, instead of contributing to the whole spiral of that week. (In his heart, though, Foggy knew that he wouldn't have been able to do it: that to sit down and quietly, seriously plan to hurt Matt as badly as possible, to make a plan that assumed Matt was dangerous, that was - that had always been beyond him. There were things that he was good at, and there were things that he could do - he could, for example, hit a stranger with a baseball bat, if Karen needed him to, and he hadn't known that about himself until it happened - and there were things that Foggy simply hadn't been made to do: if there was a God, if Matt's god really existed, He would've understood.) 

Still. The _third_ time that Matt tried to leave him alone, Foggy felt like he had to - to say something, because Matt couldn't _really_ think that this was something that they could do, he couldn't _honestly_ think that this would happen. 

"I gotta get clothes from my place," he'd said because _that_ was true enough, "I'm smelling myself, man, it's got to be killing you," watching Matt, very carefully. 

Matt winced, just a little. "Yeah," he said. "Don't worry about it, I can pick some stuff up for you - pajamas and stuff, and - jeans? I've got time, today," which. Foggy knew that his _fucking_ heartbeat was probably far too fast to be normal, at this rate, but _what the fuck_

"What the _fuck_ ," he said. It felt like he couldn't quite control his mouth. "I can _get my own clothes_ , Matt, or you can tell me what is _so serious_ I can't -" leave, he didn't say, because they hadn't said that, yet, neither of them had, and Foggy was not. Going. To throw up. 

"Foggy," Matt said, looking - tense, and miserable, and - "it's not like this is easy on me, either, knowing you're here all day, I mean, this isn't _my_ idea of perfect - "

Which: Matt had been apologizing _a lot_ since this whole thing started, but it didn't feel like he'd been - listening, exactly, didn't quite feel like anything Foggy said had quite _penetrated_ that skull, so - 

There were probably a bunch of ways to explain it, Foggy thought, later, but really what it came down to, humiliatingly, was that he knocked the table over when he stood up without thinking about it, head a solid white fuzz of static, and punched Matt. (Stop buying time and _listen_ to me, he remembered thinking, but that made no sense, of course: Matt didn't pull that lawyer shit with _Foggy_ , he'd always listened to Foggy.) 

He'd meant it as a symbolic gesture, obviously: there was no rational reason that Franklin Nelson from Hell's Kitchen would have any chance of surviving, much less holding his own, in a _fistfight_ against the _Devil of Hell's Kitchen_. The idea that he would - that he _could_ \- surprise Matt with a punch had never occurred to him: Matt was, apparently, some kind of supernatural ninja. He'd meant it as a warning, as a symbol, so when he actually hit Matt hard in the jaw, saw Matt's head snap back, he didn't - 

Matt turned back to Foggy, and he went very still: he pulled himself together, Foggy _watched_ him do it, go from a loose, mostly-relaxed-but-unhappy Matt that Foggy had known all his life to the coiled fucking muscular, predatory man on film he'd seen beating a cop into a coma. Matt tilted his head, slightly. 

Listening. 

It took maybe two seconds, all told. 

_Huh_ , he thought, and _that's that, then, this is when I push him into dropping the act_ , and it was a huge thought, so big he couldn't quite think all of it at once. It was white, and fuzzy, and took over huge parts of his brain, but he'd done it, it was in the open at least, and he wound up swinging again, twice, three times, each time Matt moved like a fucking cobra around the punches. 

(How can I be doing this, Foggy thought: trying to hit Matt for real, more than once, and knowing that when he gets tired of letting me try to hit him he's going to hurt me very badly? How is this - when did this become my life? 

and then, very deep, in the way that wasn't even a thought so much as the memory of her perfume and her smile and her skittish, jumpy laugh: _oh karen, no_ , not Karen, please don't let this be happening to her) 

Matt had him in a - there was probably a fucking name for it, Foggy thought, but he was shaking so hard and he couldn't breathe, very well, even though the whole thing probably hadn't lasted more than ten or fifteen seconds - but Matt had him in some fancy wrestling hold that really just felt like a hug, an ugly octopus sort of hug where Foggy _couldn't get his arms free_ and he couldn't get Matt off him. Matt was talking, sure, that didn't seem very important, because at this point they were - they were probably to the - Foggy remembered the video, you could see the Devil breaking bones - and this was bad, this was - it - it didn't even feel like breathing anymore, it felt like gulping at the air, and everything was getting a little spangly round the edges - and there were black pinpricks getting bigger - 

and he heard Matt saying, fuzzy, in an underwater-sort-of-way, "oh no don't, please don't, breathe, foggy, you have to breathe for me," which was funny because he was _really trying_ here but he couldn't - 

He never quite fainted. 

Sort of wished he had, honestly: it got hard to breathe, and he missed details - the black flowery spots, which were actually kind of pretty, like fireworks or flowers - made it hard to see, ha ha, but that wasn't something he could complain about to Matt, obviously - but also it was hard to hear things. Matt was talking, Matt had started talking a _lot_ , but it was hard to keep up with the details. It was hard to hear everything he said, since everything was so fuzzy in Foggy's head. 

**

Things didn't really make sense until he realized they were on the floor, Matt up against the wall, holding Foggy in front of him, and it might have seemed sweet but Matt had a leg locked over Foggy's legs and had his arms, too, so - it wasn't like Foggy was going anywhere. 

Matt's hard, broad chest expanded and relaxed behind him; he made a sound like he was relieved. "Hey," he said, in Foggy's ear. "you scared me, asshole, you - huh. Feel better?" 

"Matt," Foggy said, because this - this was making him feel crazy, either he or Matt was _really crazy_ here, so whatever, Foggy needed to know that this was really happening more than he needed all his fingers, "I punched you."

"Yeah," Matt said, and laughed. "Good shot, man, I wasn't expecting _that_ ," like he was - _proud_ of Foggy. 

"I _hit you_ ," Foggy said, because - maybe if he said it often enough it would start being real, or Matt would start acting like a person. 

"Yeah," Matt said. "Hey - whoah - it's not a big deal, sometimes people get upset, don't - I know you didn't mean it, man, don't worry -"

"Sometimes people get upset," Foggy parroted. 

"Not me!" Matt said, too quick, earnest, curling tighter around Foggy: "I'm not upset with you, Foggy, I promise, but I know people do, it's okay, I'm not mad, it's fine -"

"Matt," Foggy said, slow, feeling the hard muscles in Matt's biceps and forearms: "I've seen what you do to people who try to hit you."

"To _cops_ ," Matt said, like he lived in a world where that distinction would make anyone feel better in any way at all, "to _dirty_ cops, Foggy, they weren't - they were bad people." He nuzzled Foggy's ear. 

_He nuzzled Foggy's ear_ , oh, great, Franklin, you have gone insane, Foggy thought, dizzily. _y'know what_ , he thought, _this is worse than I thought._. He'd thought Matt would drop the act if Foggy hit him, but now, here, close in Matt's arms, he was beginning to think that there was no act at all. It was all Matt, all of it: the clinging, the love, the worry, the crazy fucking room that locked from the outside, the small time drug dealer in a coma, the cop in a coma - that was all Matt, Foggy thought. No part of that was pretending. 

Oh, he thought, leaning his head back against Matt's shoulder, oh, oh, oh no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> concrit is better than ice cream! 
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about this, but as I keep saying: allow me to present My Feelings Bout Matt Murdock & His Abusive Chilldhood, Yikes?


	3. Chapter 3

So there's a couple of days where Foggy doesn't talk to Matt, right? After the pathetic attempt at a fist-fight. He just doesn't. He can't think of anything worth saying, and he doesn't think that Matt will hear him, and okay, yeah, he's down at the very very bottom of his heart a little sick and a little spiteful. Okay. He's not a good person. He gets that. Somehow he missed the part where his best friend was a violent psychopath, and - and a good person would've caught that in time, probably. 

Matt took it surprisingly well. 

"Don't you think it's a little childish?" Matt said. 

It was _crazy_ , how calm he was about the whole thing: Foggy wanted to say _you locked me in a room, asshole, who's childish here_ , and if he'd opened his mouth it would've popped out, no question, no takebacks, so he had to shut up. It made him feel a little less real, honestly. Matt got into bed, so Foggy curled up on the floor with a blanket he'd pulled off the bed while Matt was gone. Matt sighed, loud enough that Foggy was pretty sure he was meant to hear it, but he didn't do anything. "Okay, Foggy," Matt said, into the dark. He sounded resigned, a little hurt: _fuck him_ , Foggy thought, but already he was losing the bright edge of anger that had prompted the Quiet Game. Matt was - Matt had said, Foggy thought, Matt had said that he wasn't angry at Foggy: okay, so Foggy could be angry at Matt, surely he wouldn't - 

\- it would be easier, if he knew where Karen was. 

"I mean," Matt said, the next morning, while he was eating, running his fingers across the braille of something he'd clearly printed from their office, Foggy could tell from the weird fuzzy right corners, "OK, you're upset, but what, are you gonna hold your breath next?" 

It was very hard not to say "sure, asshole, which of us will last longer?" but Foggy managed not to respond. 

The thing was, Matt had a terrifying streak of honesty to him, and he was focusing it all on Foggy. 

"You look tired," he said, "you should catch up on your sleep, you should, think of it like a -" he laughed, a little, "like a vacation," and:

"I wanted to tell you about the senses a million times," he said. "When you asked me bout the spins. When you kept bringing junk food into the room, that was _the worst_ , we didn't - we didn't get that at the orphanage."

He couldn't help responding, even though he didn't say anything, when Matt pushed up into his space again, before he left, shoving his nose under Foggy's jaw, sniffing hard like some kind of animal. Hot wet breath, familiar smell: oh - it was - _no_ , Foggy thought. There wasn't any point to trying to push Matt away, of course, because it had become humiliatingly clear that he wouldn't be winning any fist fights, but - but at least he could practice a little self-control, stop popping a fucking boner every time his crazy partner got within five feet. 

"I'm gonna be back in seven hours," Matt said, and he was folding Foggy's fingers around a - an actual _watch_ , an analog watch, oh for fuck's sake, right - "that's a promise, Foggy, I know you don't trust me right now, but I swear I'm doing the right thing, you see if I break a promise again, okay?" and he grinned, Foggy felt the sharp teeth, and kissed Foggy's throat like a bite. "I like the smell of you," Matt finished, "it's like home," and he left _again_ , and - and Foggy had _no fucking clue_ what the fuck he was supposed to do with any of that.

Matt was gone for six hours and fifty-three minutes. 

Foggy couldn't help checking, when Matt came through the door, carrying takeout containers that smelled like garlic and marinara sauce. 

Six hours and fifty-three minutes. 

He wanted to giggle: it was so ridiculous, that _this_ was the thing Matt turned out to be scrupulous about. _I am not_ , he thought, _I am not reassured by this_ , this is the easiest fucking kind of promise to keep, but - but Matt had said that he'd keep his promises. 

The really terrible thing? The really terrible thing, still, was that Foggy wanted _to talk to Matt_ , because that's what he would've done a month ago: yo, Matt, he would've said. I know this guy who's not altogether stable, y'know? but he's trying, I think he's trying, maybe he's messing with me, but maybe he's trying to get his act together, and we're starting with baby steps, but he kept a promise today. Is that bullshit, Matt? What do you think, Murdock, you're the one who knows the ethics, I'm the one who knows what the time is worth. 

And whatever Matt might've said, Foggy would've trusted it. 

That kind of shit. 

That's why he wasn't hungry, and he especially fucking wasn't hungry when Matt was around, looking tired but content tonight, like he'd put in a solid day's work and was ready to rest. 

"OK, but I know I made it back in time," Matt said. He'd taken his glasses off, put them on the counter next to the tiny sink. Well shit, Foggy was glad that he was comfy. 

Karen, Foggy thought, Karen Karen Karen, but he hadn't said boo to Matt for a whole day now, and it felt - it felt like bad luck, to break a silence with her name. (And, he thought, oh Matt, why are you making me do this, but: Matt clearly wanted him to talk, right? And Foggy wanted to know what the fuck Matt had done to Karen, and - in a situation like this, where Foggy didn't really have any leverage, it seemed important to draw out whatever he could before asking again.) 

 

**

 

Matt was late getting back, the fifth day. Foggy'd meant to stay awake, but it had been a long day and there was nothing to _do_ , and Matt wasn't back, so he was gone, or he'd abandoned Foggy, or he was hurt, or fuck, maybe he was dead. Maybe Foggy would starve. Great. 

There were about a thousand reasons to panic, at this point, but now, when circumstances changed and it would have been reasonable to panic, Foggy found himself too _tired_ to work up a fuss. 

So he got in bed and fell asleep: it was awful to admit, but it was the best sleep he'd had since this mess had started. Knowing that Matt wasn't there made the place feel lonelier and, weirdly, less claustrophobic: he felt like he could take a breathe without worrying about Matt listening to it, making one of his scary as fuck observations about it. 

Matt woke him up, getting in: it felt both terrifying and domestic. "Hey," he said, sounding surprised and pleased, and - fuck, he was cold, and wet, curling up behind Foggy. "You're warm."

Foggy had a minute of choking - rage, and grief, because _he could've had this_ , and he _wanted this with Matt_ , and fuck Matt for turning one of Foggy's old idle daydreams (maybe college, maybe law school, maybe interning, but maybe one day Matt would turn around and say oh, hey, i'm not relentlessly straight, Foggy, you just surprised me that first day, i thought you might've been one of those disability save-a-ho groupies, but now that I know you hell yes, please tell me how good-looking I am, let's do it naked, we're already practically married let's just throw the good sex in.)

Look, the point to those daydreams was that Foggy was literally the only person who ever knew about them, and he usually only indulged when he was dead tired or drunk. 

And they were supposed to be a good thing, they were supposed to be his dumb little secret fantasy, and under no circumstances was the stupid fantasy supposed to turn into this nightmare right here. _Fuck_ Matt for doing this, fuck him for being strong and rapidly warming up and now, _now_ , now that he was some kind of vigilante terrorist, now he wanted to get up close to Foggy and touch him, kiss him, curl around him late at night? 

"No," Matt said: he sounded slurred, a little, like he was very tired, "please not _now_ , you were happy to see me for a minute, can we just." He threw an arm over Foggy's chest, pulled him back, and the fucked up part was that Foggy was angry but he was tired too, even though he'd basically spent five or six days doing jack shit. 

He thought about saying something, he honestly did, and he thought about getting out of the warm bed, and he thought about pushing Matt away, and while he was thinking about all of that, Matt snugged up tight behind him and let out a long, contented sigh, and - 

\- and it wasn't like anyone would know, if he just. 

"Thank you," Matt said, in his hair, and kissed the back of his neck, because this new, crazy Matt apparently only understood boundaries as things that you jumped over, like he was a racehorse trying to clear a difficult obstacle course. And at this point, Foggy wondered if the silent treatment was effective at all, because Matt was tired and sleepy enough to be unusually honest, obviously: even though Foggy hadn't protested, Matt sighed and muttered "no, I know, I'm not gonna - I'm not a _dick_ , I just - thank you for letting me," and pushed a leg in between Foggy's.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, well. 

The next morning Foggy woke up because Matt was biting his shoulder and had a hand down his pants, and he was snug up against Foggy's back, one long line of heat, and that turned out to be the last straw. He didn't say anything, but he shoved Matt off and back - a lot harder than he'd ever touched Matt, but for the punch - and got out of bed to stomp to the shower and pee and _get rid of this fucking boner_. 

That was the plan, at least. 

He got Matt off him at first, and then he got halfway out of the bed before Matt did something fast and hard and totally unexpected, and Foggy was facedown with Matt _on top of him_ , pinned with an arm behind his _back_ , what the - fuck. 

"Please don't lie to me," Matt said, good, he was extra-crazy this morning and Foggy was going to be badly hurt, here. "I know I lied but please don't -"

Things went weirdly slow and fast all at once. 

"Matt," Foggy said, "let me up."

He thought for a minute that he was going to be okay. Matt relaxed just the slightest bit when he heard Foggy's voice - which was fair, he hadn't said anything for a couple of days, now - and he thought. He thought he was home free. 

"No," Matt said. 

He sounded almost as surprised as Foggy felt, like it hadn't occurred to him to simply say no instead of giving a laundry list of excuses and evasions. Good for him: he wasn't the one lying on his stomach with his arm twisted up behind him and a hundred-and-eighty-pound martial artist on top of him. Foggy felt his breathing getting quicker, more panicky. 

"No," Matt said, and it sounded conciliatory but also - also uneasy, tinged with bright adrenaline. The sheets were grey and silk, and Foggy could see them and the corner of the room. One of his shoes was poking out from beneath the bed. "Talk to me, please, just -"

"I'm not lying to you, Matt," Foggy said. He hadn't ever thought - it was weird, how quickly things kept skipping from bad to worse, here. "I think you should let go of me." 

"I get why you were so mad when you realized I knew when you lied," Matt said, and he sounded angry now, not hurt: "you're _always lying_ about that, you look at me and you get hard."

"That doesn't mean -" Foggy said, because wow, Matt _meant it_ , that was the terrifying part here. 

"Then why - " Matt blew out a frustrated breath; it hit Foggy on the back of the neck. "Why do you keep - you keep getting hard, I know you're thinking about it." 

"Matt," Foggy said, without moving his hands, because he was damned if he was going to provoke anything, here, "if a client came to us and told us this story, whose side would you be on?" 

"You want me to tell you every time you've gotten hard for me?" Matt said, which was frankly fucking ominous, here, and Foggy tried to find a way to say _I've gotten hard for Betty White before but I'm not gonna fuck her, either_ , in a way that wouldn't. Start a fight. (They appeared to be having a fight anyways, which was. Foggy somehow didn't think this was going to end well for him, honestly.) 

"Things have been a little crazy since you dropped by my place," Foggy told the sheets. 

Matt leaned a little more of his weight against Foggy's hips, pressing him into the mattress. "No," he said, clear, a little mean and a little frustrated. "I said every time."

"My dick is _not my priority_ right now," Foggy said, and suddenly he was talking, shit, that was the opposite of good, this was a fucking disaster, he - why couldn't he stop talking? "Where the _fuck_ is Karen, Matt? That is what I want to know, you want to talk lying, where is she, what did you do to _her_ , man, you can't think - what is _wrong_ with you?" 

It got really quiet in the room, after he finished; it felt like those times when he'd gotten into fights with Marci, when she'd waited for him to stop yelling and then stayed quiet for a couple minutes, to make sure a) that he was done and b) that he felt like shit about it. The difference, here, was that Marci had never made him feel like he was going to get - Matt had gone totally still, on top of him, and he hadn't let go of Foggy's arm. Foggy could hear Matt breathing; they were close enough that he could practically feel the rise and fall of Matt's chest. 

I have fucked up, Foggy thought. Good. Good; there was no fucking way this could continue, it would have made him crazier than Matt, he knew it, and if he - _I didn't tell my sister that I -_

He only let himself think half of that thought. 

Because it was an insane thought. 

The _other_ half of that thought, that new and cold and terrifying thought, _Matt knows where she lives_ , he couldn't keep himself from thinking that one. 

Matt jerked off him all in one motion - poor choice of words, Foggy-bear - and Foggy collapsed, there was no other word for it, across the bed, sucking in huge gulps of air. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. 

"You think I would -" Matt started. He wasn't stomping because he was barefoot, sure, but he was walking fast and Foggy didn't have to have chemicals splashed on him to hear the way Matt put each foot down, hard, angry. "I don't - why are you _afraid_ of me, I am _trying_ -" 

That was fine. Foggy was just going to lie there and breathe, and maybe think again about how fucking screwed he most certainly was. Matt got dressed - fast, angry - and threw the stupid fucking watch down on the bed, said "I will be back in _two hours_. And - please, even if you're mad at _me_ , would you - eat something?" 

 

**

 

Foggy didn't know why he flinched when he heard Matt opening the door, an hour and a half later. He came back with a pile of folders. "Look," he said, tossed one to Foggy, who caught it automatically, and opened it, and - fuck. 

"This is my place," Foggy said. He coughed. 

"Yeah," Matt said, immediately, "drink water, I got a honey tea thing. Claire gave it to me."

When, Foggy thought, did Claire give it to you, exactly? And: where is Claire? but - but that was his apartment, the whole fucking building had burnt. When had this happened? - but the police report was dated a couple of days ago, by his math. He had no - the whole _building_ had burnt, this was insane, who and why would bother to set a building on fire just for him, this - didn't feel real. He felt _cold_ , and like nothing really made sense. The officer's name was vaguely familiar - he had a feeling Brett might have mentioned the guy, in passing, once or twice, but it wasn't familiar enough to really ring any bells. 

"What day is it, Matt?" 

Matt turned away. "Not important right now," he said, which - 

 

**

 

"Karen's fine," Matt said, very quietly; he was holding Foggy's hand, and Foggy was drinking tea and looking over the police report. Nobody had died. He sounded tired, and hurt, and worried, but he didn't sound guilty. "She has to be fine, Foggy, she's smart, she's brave, she _has to be fine_." 

Of course, he was a liar. 

But faking a police report would take more than what Matt had: he would've had to have help, to do something like this. 

Foggy's whole building had burnt. 

The police report said that it was arson, and obvious, professional arson. 

"So let me talk to her," he said, "because buddy, this is -" there weren't words for what he felt. "Matt, what the fuck are you doing?" and no, maybe it wasn't something you said to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen after he'd kidnapped you, but Foggy needed to talk to Matt, here. 

"She ran," Matt said. "I told her to stay put, where I could keep an eye on her, Foggy, and she - she just wasn't there," and he leaned into Foggy, hard, and - and suddenly Foggy was holding Matt. "She's not answering her phone," he said, very quietly. "I didn't want to tell you, I wanted to _find her_ before I had to tell you this, but - " and he knuckled hard at his eyes, which had started leaking again. "She's okay, right?" 

"Karen's tougher than you or me," Foggy said. Inwardly, he felt the new spike of fear, sick and bright: if whoever was hunting them had _burned his building down_ then how could they be sure that Karen was safe? She was - she was the kind of woman who had insurance, absolutely, but - oh, what a fucking mess. It made more sense, at least, Matt's terrifying inability to let Foggy about his own business, and it didn't - it wouldn't excuse this lunacy, but - but Foggy could understand it, from the outside. He wanted to find Karen, pull her into a clean room with food and - and a _phone_ , Matt - until Daredevil had figured out who was targeting them and punched his face in. "I get why - the - but you gotta know it's me and you, right, I'm not going anywhere?"

"No," Matt said. 

Foggy felt sick: sudden, dizzying drop in his stomach, because that didn't sound like agreement, that sounded like. 

"Matt," he said. "Matt, what are you _doing_ here? what do you think is going to -"

"I love you," Matt said, looking small and miserable and hurt, like saying it out loud hurt. "I want - you to be _safe_ , Foggy." He smelled clean and a little dusty; he smelled terribly familiar, and the weight of him was familiar, and Foggy had literally no idea what the fuck to do about any of this. 

"I love you too, man," he said, helplessly, because it was _true_ ; as it turned out, there was almost nothing that Matt could do that would break _that_ bottom-line of Foggy's world. 

"You don't want me - you think I'd _hurt_ you," Matt said, with his face in the crook of Foggy's shoulder. "I wouldn't ever do that, I swear, I swear, I -" and Foggy realized that his shoulder was wet and Matt was crying, low and broken, and his arms tightened around Matt's too-thin rock-hard body almost without his permission. Jesus. 

"No," he said. Was it true? He had no idea, anymore; he had the feeling that Matt would hurt him; Matt had said no, that morning, but - did Matt want to hurt him? No, he knew that in his bones: definitely no. "No, Matt, I - " and he tilted Matt's face up. It was awkward, clumsy at first: the angle was bad, but then he'd got their mouths slotted together, and Matt kissed like he was _starving_ , like he was _drowning_. 

Foggy tried very hard not to think about what they said about drowning victims. 

 

***

 

Karen watched Matt come into the office. He looked more and more like hell every day that Foggy remained, terrifyingly, absent from their lives. She felt like shit; he looked like shit. She was just glad that she could be there for him, because she _felt_ helpless, and terrified, but Matt looked like he'd given up on sleeping since the fourth or fifth day that Foggy had disappeared. 

She jumped up and hugged him, hard: he leaned into her arms immediately. Pulled back, a little self-consciously, after a few minutes. "Sorry," he said. "I. Karen."

"You don't be sorry," she said. "Nobody is _giving up_ , Matt, we're going to find him." 

"Yeah," he said. He didn't look like he believed her. 

"You have to eat, though," she said. "Foggy wouldn't want you beating yourself up, Matt, this is _not your fault_." 

When he laughed, he sounded utterly miserable, and like he thought she was a liar. That was okay. He was _trusting_ her, no matter what, and that was good. They were going to get Foggy back, she knew it in her heart, and every day she kept praying _back alive, oh, let us find him alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> concrit makes my day!


End file.
